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THE LAST TIFFINAt exactly 7:30 every morning, Ramesh Sharma rang the doorbell of Flat 304.And every morning, the same voice shouted from inside—“Coming, coming! Why are you ringing like the police?”The door opened.A sixty-five-year-old man stood there wearing a white vest, loose pyjamas and an expression that suggested the entire world owed him money.“Good morning, Uncle!” Ramesh smiled.“Don't call me Uncle. I'm only sixty-five.”“You're right. You look fifty-nine.”“Liar.”“Thank you.”Ramesh handed him a stainless-steel tiffin.“Today's special. Aloo paratha.”The old man immediately brightened.“With pickle?”“Of course.”“Curd?”“Extra.”“Then why are you charging me so much?”Ramesh laughed.This was their routine for almost three years.Ramesh delivered lunch